Rise of the Rich and Powerful Jamie Ashford

Chapter 5

Jamie had spent the entire night dancing in the rain — soaked, cold, and mad with euphoria — on the same bridge he had nearly jumped off hours ago. His limbs ached from the wildness of his movements, but his soul, for the first time in years, felt alive. He twirled and spun and laughed like a man who had just wrestled with the gods and won. He sang aloud, arms flung wide to the heavens, the rain hiding his tears — both the old ones of grief and the new ones of redemption.

Eventually, sometime before dawn, he slumped down on a wooden bench nearby, exhausted and half-conscious. The rain had stopped. His eyes fluttered open only when the early morning sun pierced the cloudy sky and kissed his wet face with golden warmth. Jamie groaned softly and sat up. His neck ached, his clothes clung to his body like damp rags, and he was shivering, but he had one thing on his mind.

He fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

With trembling fingers, he unlocked it and stared at the banking app. His heart pounded. Was it real? Had it all been a dream? Some elaborate hallucination conjured by grief, trauma, and exhaustion?

The numbers stared back at him — $10,000,100,500.00 — and he let out a choked laugh.

“It’s real,” he whispered. “Oh God, it’s real.”

The cool spring air brushed his skin, but Jamie didn’t feel it. His mind was racing. Memories of his mother's final words echoed now with terrifying clarity. You are not a nobody. You matter more than anyone else in this world. Back then, he’d thought it was the kind of thing mothers said to comfort their dying sons. But now he understood. She knew something. She’d kept a secret—one that had shattered his reality and rebuilt it in a single night.

He remembered the voice from the call — Raymond Ashford. The name still sent chills through him. The patriarch of the Ashford clan. A man who, according to countless rumors and conspiracy theories, wielded power not just in wealth but in influence—the kind that transcended borders, governments, and constitutions. A man who claimed to be Jamie's grandfather.

But Jamie wasn’t ready to process all that.

Not yet.

Right now, the number glaring on his screen screamed one thing: spend it. He had to test it. Make sure it wasn’t a glitch, or a bank error, or a prank on a cosmic scale.

He quickly transferred $10 million to a secondary account he had barely used. Within seconds, the amount was reflected there. A ping confirmed it; his main balance dipped to $9,990,100,500. No glitch, no hoax. A grin split his face—manic, disbelieving. Time to spend, to wield this power. 

 It had worked. It was real. 

He chuckled again, a little more hysterically this time. “Ten billion… this is insane.”

The first thing that came to mind was his mother. Her funeral, her medical bills — all of it still looming like dark clouds over what should’ve been a new dawn. Jamie flagged down a taxi, barely waiting for it to stop before he hopped in.

“To Saint Mary’s General. Fast, please.”

The driver, noticing Jamie’s disheveled look and the desperation in his voice, simply nodded and hit the gas. Jamie’s heart pounded harder the closer they got. He hadn’t changed clothes, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t brushed his teeth — he looked like a vagrant. But he didn't care. He had a mission.

When he reached the hospital, he burst through the side doors and sprinted toward the morgue. He could see a gurney being rolled into a loading area.

“Wait!” he yelled.

The staff turned. One of the morticians frowned. “What’s your problem?”

“That’s my mother,” Jamie said breathlessly. “Where are you taking her?”

A tall man in a white coat stepped forward. “You must be Jamie.” His voice was dry, condescending. “Look, I don’t know what kind of fantasy you’ve cooked up in your head, but your mother’s debts haven’t magically disappeared.”

“I’ve come to pay everything,” Jamie said firmly.

The doctor’s eyes scanned him — his torn jeans, his matted hair, his pungent odor. “You? With what money?”

Jamie ignored the comment and pulled out his phone. “Give me the hospital’s bank details.”

The doctor crossed his arms, amused. “Fine. Let’s see how far your delusion goes.”

Jamie input the account number and wired $200,000. Within moments, the doctor’s phone buzzed with the alert.

“Now,” Jamie said. “Hand her over.”

The doctor’s smugness evaporated instantly. He stared at the screen, blinking hard. “This… this can’t be real.”

“We owed you $110,000. Keep the change.”

The doctor’s jaw dropped, eyes darting to his own device as the transfer pinged. “What—how—” He stammered, disbelief warring with greed. 

Jamie didn't answer. He turned to the gurney and softly placed a hand on the white sheet that covered his mother’s face. He would give her the burial she deserved — the one poverty almost denied her. 

“Fine, you paid. But I’m not releasing her. Her husband—your stepfather—gave us rights to do what we want.”

Jamie’s jaw clenched. “You’ve been paid. And I’m her son.”

“You paid your debt, yes. But the body is ours now. Besides…” The doctor hesitated. “There’s much profit to be made from selling certain… materials.”

So that was it. Greed. Pure, unfiltered greed. Jamie felt the rage bubbling again, the same rage he’d felt watching Amanda with Nathan, the same rage when Jonathan called his mother a witch. Jamie’s fists clenched. Of course—Ben’s spite, the hospital’s profit. Selling her parts would line their pockets more than his payment ever could. 

“Name your price,” he growled. “Whatever it takes, I want her for a proper burial.”

The doctor’s eyes glinted, lips wetting with avarice. “One million dollars.” A ridiculous sum, a test. Jamie didn’t blink—another transfer, $1 million gone in a heartbeat, his balance barely dented. The doctor gaped, stunned silent, regret flickering as he realized he could’ve demanded ten times that.

“Okay, okay,” the doctor muttered, flustered. “Let me just—” He stepped away, phone to his ear, voice low. Jamie caught Ben’s name, his gut twisting. The man, Dr. Jason Trien, was snitching. 

The phone buzzed once. Twice.

Ben Reynolds answered, groggy. “What is it?”

“Jamie’s here,” the doctor said. “He… paid everything.”

Ben sat up. “What? Paid? With what?”

“I don't know.”

Ben processed the information slowly. Then he snarled. “It must be Stacy,” Ben quickly concluded on the only possible way Jamie must have gotten the money. It was his weak daughter, Stacy, she always had a soft spot for that Jamie and his mother. “Now, listen to me, I don’t care if he paid the money. You don’t release the body. That’s an order.” Ben barked orders at the doctor.

The doctor hesitated. “But—”

“Give it to the harvesters. End of discussion.”

The line went dead.

Minutes later, he returned, smug again. “Just spoke to Mr. Reynold. He says you’ve got nothing—must be Stacy’s pity cash. Orders stand: the corpse goes to harvest.”

Jamie’s blood boiled. Stacy’s $100,000 couldn’t explain this, but Jason hadn’t spilled the extra million to Ben—the greedy bastard was covering his tracks. “Ben’s wrong,” Jamie hissed. “I paid. You’ve got no right—”

“Orders from above,” Jason cut in, smug as ever. “Take it up with him.”

Jamie loomed closer, voice low and dangerous. “You’re screwing me because Ben says so? I could buy this hospital, fire you, and—” He stopped, the logistics of crushing Ben’s empire too tangled for now. It was going to take him some time to engage that thought of buying the hospital or Ben’s company. Time his mother’s corpse didn’t have. 

Jason’s smirk widened, unfazed.

“Security!” the doctor barked. Two burly guards materialized, hands reaching for Jamie. “Toss this filth out.”

 Jamie braced to fight, fury surging, when Jason’s phone rang. He answered, his face paling as the voice on the other end spoke. Seconds ticked by—five, ten—and Jason’s knees wobbled, sweat beading on his brow. He looked like he might collapse, or worse, soil himself.